"So I told the man, Monsieur le Capitaine; not much to hide. _Voyez-vous_, I said, here is the captain's life so far as I know it. He rides in every Thursday evening about six of the clock, leaves his horse, as I have heard him say, at an inn in the Rue St. Louis, sees his friends, sleeps at the inn, and rides out of Paris again at six in the morning to his duties. Not much mystery in that, _mon ami?_ I said to him. Not much mystery in that." "And what did he say to you in return?" asked Bertie. "Little enough. Remarked that he had made no suggestion of mystery; indeed, was not aware of any reason for such; only he desired to see you. Asked if you wore your military dress, to which I answered _ma foi!_ no. The uniform of the Regiment of Picardy was too handsome, the cuirass too heavy for ordinary wear, the gold lace too costly; and that monsieur was always well but soberly attired. Also that his horse, a bright bay, was a pretty creature, as she is, as she is," whereon he stroked the mare's muzzle affectionately, for he himself was an old cavalryman and knew a good horse when he saw one. "Well," said Bertie with a laugh, "you have described me accurately, so that my friend should know me when he sees me. However, I must not linger here. Good-night. Good-night, _Bébé_," to the child playing with the dog, both of whom he, who loved children and animals, had long since made acquaintance with. As he rode through the narrow streets towards the inn where he always put up for the night, he reflected that it might have been wise to ask the gate-keeper for a description of the man who had been anxious to obtain that of him; but since he had not done so there was no help for it. Yet he could not dismiss from his mind the fact of the unknown having inquired for him--and by name, too--nor help wondering who on earth he could be. He pondered over every friend he could call to mind, old comrades in the French King's service by whose side he had fought, or comrades in the late English invasion; yet his meditations naturally amounted to nothing. The man might have been one of them or none of them, and, whoever he was, no amount of cogitation would reveal him. He must wait and see what the mysterious inquirer might turn out to be. He rode into the inn he used in the Rue St. Louis, put up his horse, and after personally seeing it attended to--for it had done duty before starting for Paris--went into the guests' room and made a slight meal, after which he ordered a coach to be called to take him to Passy, where his mother lived. Later, when Bertie Elphinston had disappeared from all human knowledge from that night, the search that was made for him elucidated what had been his movements and actions up to a certain point, after which all clue was lost. What those movements were have now to be told.